


it's gonna leave its mark somewhere

by kittenby (screechfox)



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Blood Magic, Dysphoria, Gen, parvill if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-18 23:47:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13692381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/screechfox/pseuds/kittenby
Summary: The reflection in the blood is years younger than it should be, Strife thinks for a moment, as he grips the altar with white knuckled fingers.For a few moments, the past comes back to haunt Strife.





	it's gonna leave its mark somewhere

**Author's Note:**

> i started this back in 2016, but i've come to terms with the fact it's never going to be finished, and i reckon this stands alone well enough.
> 
> this is very _very_ loosely inspired by sanguimancer by mindfulwrath, because i initially misread the summary as strife being the inventor of blood magic, and went 'ooooo, what if'.
> 
> title is from 'take shelter' by years & years

The reflection in the blood is years younger than it should be, Strife thinks for a moment, as he grips the altar with white knuckled fingers. There are smudges of blood all over the soft puppy fat of his face, and his cut lip seems redder than anything he’s ever seen.

He sways, dizzy, and the thought flickers away. Parv reaches an arm out casually to wrap around him, the starkness of his bones making a tender gesture snake-like; languid and cold.

“Something wrong, Strife?” Strife has to swallow as the tones sink into his brain, trying to remember how to form words, one after another. It’s hard to think through the pains in his arm, through the warm liquid spreading through his second-best shirt. It’s hard to think through the way the face staring up at him doesn’t seem like his own.

“Nothing,” He finally gets out, forcing his expression into something resembling a smile. “Just too much at once, is all.” Parv makes a disbelieving sound in his throat, but Strife knows he won’t push it until Strife can get the words out without choking on them. At which point, Strife will hopefully have thought of something else to say.

Parv helps him into the long bedroom. It’s a surprisingly caring move on his part, but the way the sharp planes of his bones dig into Strife’s flesh kind of negates any gratitude he has.

When Parv lets go, Strife falls unceremoniously onto one of the beds. It’s not really any more comfortable, even once he pulls himself into something resembling sitting - his arm clutched to his chest to try and calm the throbbing ache. He just sits and breathes for a moment, before looking up at Parv.

Parv is watching him from the doorway. There’s a look on his face that Strife doesn’t like, but he can’t quite place it. Even when they meet eyes for a moment, Parv doesn’t move, even though only a minute ago he’d been completely focused on getting this new spell perfect, no matter how much blood had to be given from the witches, from Strife… even from himself, when Strife couldn’t deter him.

After a few more moments, during which a headache starts in Strife’s brain, pounding intermittently, he weakly raises his free arm in a shooing motion. “I’ll be fine. Just need to take five, that’s all.“ He nods at Parv, and, after a pause, Parv leaves, silent.

Distantly, Strife can hear the sounds of the altar bubbling, and he leans back against the hard stone wall.

Really, his arm isn’t the problem. He’s gone through that pain thousands of times in his life. The problem is the rising sense of dysphoria ringing stronger and stronger in his bones - the feeling that _this is not right_ and _he is not right_ and an ache of hunger in his chest.

His waistcoat sits, discarded, a few beds over, and he leans over and pulls it closer with his free hand, his fingers skittering across the fabric until he finds the pocket he’s looking for.

It’s a bit of a struggle to pull it out one-handed, but he pulls out a colour photo - faded, crumpled - of a man, very similar to himself. Same hair, same face shape, same fashion sense. It’s only the little details that make Strife distinguishable from the man staring back at him with a smirk on his face.

The man staring back at him has wrinkles at his eyes and mouth, and stares at the camera boldly. Though there’s a perfect smile on his face, and an amused glittering in his eyes, there's an air of aloofness to him, like nothing around him matters at all.

Maybe Strife is just reading into it too much. Well, he definitely _has_ read into it too much in past, considering the smudges of dirt and redstone on the back of the photo - he’d never really cared when he looked at it before, and he suddenly realises that he’s probably getting smears of blood on it even now.

He can’t bring himself to put it away, though, and he stays, looking at it, waiting for the ebb and flow (of his blood pouring out of his arm, of his head pounding, of that shifting sense of hunger) to dissipate, until Parv appears at the doorway again.

Parv’s expression is the same unreadable one that he’d given Strife before, but it quickly shifts into mischief as his gaze locks onto the photo in Strife’s hand. Quick as lightning, Parv’s snatched the photo away and is examining it with a grasp that's even more careless than Strife’s own.

“Weird resemblance, Strifey. This guy your dad or something?” It shocks Strife into laughing, a bittersweet snort bursting from his lungs against his will.

“Something like that,” He says, an attempt at a wry grin on his face, as he holds out his hand for the photo. Parv keeps it for just long enough that it’s irritating - on purpose, Strife is sure - before handing it back. Strife slips it back into the waistcoat pocket where it belongs, then looks expectantly at Parv.

Parv grins, knife-sharp, and normality is restored. “You were missing the good stuff, Strifey! I had to come and check on you!” Strife rolls his eyes, looking at Parv with a raised eyebrow.

Parv holds out a hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, Strife takes it - ignoring the skin-crawling feeling he gets from the touch - and is promptly pulled up to standing. Parv is giving him that look again, but Strife brushes it off, walking back into the main room with his shoulders set and his head held high.

**Author's Note:**

> i may end up writing scattered bits of this verse up? i've got a long free-written set of notes about it with some scenes that might be interesting, so i might clean some of that up. but this is only a maybe - no promises.
> 
> hope you enjoyed! you can find me on tumblr at screechfoxes.


End file.
